


Have You Got Any Stamps, Legolas?

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Fellowship of the Ring, Humor, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2005-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this.  Parody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Dear Boromir,

Heard from our dear Father that you'd arrived safely at Imladris. How he finds out these things I'll never know. I considered asking him, but he was holding a rather lethal-looking letter opener at the time and, since he is wont to attack impertinent questioners without much provocation, I thought it best not to pry.

Your lack is felt very keenly here in Minas Tirith. Father is becoming a bit... antsy... without his eldest, and when I mentioned you at dinner the other evening, he sprang at me from across the table and attempted to maul me with a butter knife before all the courtiers. Hence my letter-opener apprehensions. Looking forward to heading back to Henneth Annûn for possibly the first time in my life.

I hope you take full advantage of whatever wisdom the Eldar have to offer you concerning the Sword and Isildur's Bane, and be careful not to offend any Elves if you can help it-- they are a flighty folk, for all their pretensions, and clannish, so to slight one is to bring all their kin down upon you. And whatever you do, don't confuse male Elves for women, and vice-versa, for their mannerisms and habits of dress are much the same.

Oh, sweet Eru... Father has just burst into the room looking seriously displeased. Taking cover.

Faramir

 __

Dear Faramir,

Please tell our Father that if he injures you in any way, shape, or form, he will have to answer to me-- an unpleasant prospect, as any of my men will tell you. So he had best be careful. In the meantime, you may want to avoid him in general, as your presence alone seems to send him into dark moods. Cheers, brother.

Imladris, or "Rivendell" as they call it, is in fact an Elven stronghold concealed in a secret valley. Nice enough place, but there are too many Elves around here. Lord Elrond, however, is very courteous (must be his human blood), though his eyebrows make me nervous. They seem to have minds of their own, rather like Mithrandir's-- incidentally, he is here also, along with a bunch of Dwarves and a delegation of Elves from Mirkwood. I wish your letter had arrived a little sooner, for I mistook the Prince of Mirkwood for a lady only yesterday-- he is not best pleased with me at present. I can't blame myself much. He would make a very pretty girl. At any rate, there is supposed to be some sort of war council coming up, where all questions concerning "Isildur's Bane" will be answered, but we are waiting on the arrival of some King named Strider. Really, what kind of a King is named Strider? Must be another Elf. They also said something about Halflings, though I think they were poking fun at our dream. I mean, they don't actually exist, do they?

Give my regards (and warnings) to Father.

Boromir

 __

Dear Boromir,

I suppose I ought to thank you for your brotherly protectiveness, though it has served me ill. Father confiscated your letter before I had read it and was not pleased by its contents. Next thing I knew, he was yelling something like, "So I'll have to answer to Boromir, eh?" and chasing me around his study with a hot poker. Almost got a burn on the buttocks, but managed to escape. Next time you write something not fit for the Steward's eyes, please code it. I am sure that I will be able to decipher it-- I taught myself Quenya, after all.

The matter must be a larger one than even we anticipated if Elves, Men, Dwarves, and Istari have all become involved, not to mention the Halflings, which, Boromir, I doubt was a joke, as Elves do not seem like a comedic folk. Also, I know that you are not much fond of lengthy discussions, but pray don't fall asleep in the middle of the Council tomorrow; you are representing Gondor, not to mention myself, and we don't want to Elves to take us for simpletons.

A King named Strider, eh? Not an Elf, I'll wager-- "Strider" does not sound particularly Sindarin. It sounds almost like a Ranger nickname, but whoever heard of a Ranger King? Well, I imagine you'll meet the man tomorrow, and then you can tell me all the particulars.

Oh, and please say hello to Mithrandir for me. I have not seen him in some time, but Father says that he was in Minas Tirith not too long ago, looking through our Archives, though how he extracted permission from Father I cannot begin to surmise. They were never very... fond of one another, to say the least.

Faramir

 __

Dear Faramir,

I have much to tell you, but I will begin by apologizing for the sorry consequences of my letter. Father is an ass indeed. I have written everything in a code of my own devising, to prevent such a thing from happening again, as I doubt that there is anything in here that would be pleasing to our father.

Extraordinarily enough, it turns out that Halflings do exist, and that one of them, Frodo by name, is in possession of Isildur's Bane-- none other than the One Ring itself. But don't get too excited; the Council voted that it ought to be destroyed, and myself, Legolas, Mithrandir, a dwarf named Gimli, Strider, and three of Frodo's kinsmen are to journey to Mordor to do so. Frodo himself is to bear the Ring, though I am beginning to doubt his capacity to handle a task of such magnitude-- I mean, can a person who's only even capable of two facial expressions (scared and bewildered; oh, and occasionally possessed, so I guess that's three) be trusted with the future of Middle-earth as we know it? The whole thing is preposterous anyway. I said that the Ring ought to go to Gondor, but n-o-o-o, everyone was more interested in listening to Mithrandir and Strider. Strider turned out to be a Ranger from the North, like you speculated, and he claims to be heir to the throne of Gondor as well! He has a large and unwieldy sword that is supposedly Narsil reforged, and when I called his claims into question, an ancient Halfling stood and spontaneously recited some poetry as if it settled the matter.

By the Valar, this just gets weirder and weirder.

Boromir

 __

Dear Boromir,

Next time, kindly think up a code more creative than Pig Latin. Do you really suppose that Father could not have figured that one out? "A code of my own devising", indeed! Luckily, it was delivered to me at Henneth Annûn and did not pass into his possession at all. However, Father found a way to express his affection even without your help... He roasted my pet parakeet and mailed the ashes to me, along with a touching note encouraging me to follow my bird's example. Should we be looking into therapy for him?

After thinking on it a while, I have concluded that the destruction of the Ring will probably be for the best. I mean, if the Ring went to Gondor it would inevitably fall into Father's hands, and I am seriously beginning to doubt his sanity. On that note, make sure that your little party doesn't pass too near Gondor on the way to Mordor, as it will probably result in confiscation of said artifact by the Steward... However, if you end up anywhere near Ithilien then I and my Rangers will be more than willing to assist you.

Be careful, Boromir. This was Isildur's bane, and it will be your bane as well.

Oh, and don't snub Strider further if you can help it. I doubt that he would make such a monumental claim if he had no evidence to back it, and, if he is Isildur's heir, then he could very easily have you executed for high treason. Just a thought.

And one last thing-- I know you like to wind that Horn every time you set out on a quest, but that would be a remarkably stupid thing to do before embarking on a secret mission. So save your breath, as it were.

Faramir


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this. Parody.

Dear Faramir,

We finally set out on "the Quest", and your advice about not blowing the Horn of Gondor came too late, as usual. Rounded off a few blasts and got told off by Lord Elrond as if I were a young miscreant. Forget what I said about his being courteous; he and his blasted eyebrows can go to Mandos.

Sorry to hear about Tinúviel. That was truly cruel of Father—you were practically married to that bird. If I see any parakeets up here, I'll catch one for you; if not, we could probably kidnap a gull in Dol Amroth. Or we could journey into Far Harad and buy something more exotic, though, on second thought, that might not be such an ideal plan. Father might fret about us getting captured by Haradrim; ridiculous man.

As for therapy: I've already had him with a psychologist on the Third Level for quite some time—ever since your thirty-first birthday, in fact. I trust you remember that incident; when we went on that boating trip on the Anduin and he tried to push you in the river, after asking you to hold the weighted fishing net for him? It would appear, however, that his current shrink isn't doing the job. Maybe we should try hypnosis.

Ah, Mithrandir insists that we set off again. Do you know that they have refused to take the Gap of Rohan and instead mean to go around the Misty Mountains through Caradhras? This shall never work.

Boromir

__ 

Dear Boromir,

Surprisingly enough, I don't seem to recall that particular boating trip, but with Father it all seems to run together. I checked up on the records; you ought not to have hired out a psychologist without consulting me first, Bori. This one's an absolute nut—he's the fellow who tried to convince me that my nightmares were the product of extreme travel anxiety. I pointed out that I rarely have them when traveling, and he said "Ah-ha! So you have extreme non-travel anxiety!" Absolutely raving.

I noticed that you ranted a great deal in your last letter about Father and Elrond, but you said absolutely nothing about this Strider. Boromir, he's going to be our King, I'd like to hear a bit more about him. Does he have a name, incidentally—since I doubt that any mother would name their child Strider, especially if he is of such lineage—?

I suppose Mithrandir knows what he's doing. He is several Ages old, and has wandered in the North for quite some time, so I would suspect, brother, that he has some idea of the best routes.

Ah... I think there are some Haradrim coming 'round the bend... I am writing this crouched rather uncomfortably behind a large bush, if you were interested... and I suppose we'd best ambush them, eh?

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

We are just now resting after an invigorating trek up Caradhras, hunkered down behind a cliff face that is supposedly "shelter." Mithrandir won't light a fire (too risky, he says) and it is damn cold. My fingers can barely write for shaking.

The snow here is almost as high as the Halflings' heads, and Frodo already took a tumble down the side of the mountain. Wonderfully coordinated, really. He dropped the Ring, too, which I very kindly picked up for him, only to get told off by Aragorn (which is Strider's proper name, in case you were interested) for who-knows-what. Tried to downplay the situation by patting Frodo on the head; I keep forgetting that's he's actually fifty, since he looks about ten, especially when wearing his big-blue-eyed-scared-and-bewildered expression (which is all the time). Then his gardener, Sam (who brings their gardener along on a quest?), told me off for "pawing his master." Eurgh.

As a matter of fact, everyone has done nothing but tell me off since this whole thing began, especially Aragorn. Yes, Faramir, I know he's our King, but it's hard to get on with someone who insists on contradicting one's every statement. "We should use the Ring." "NO! You cannot wield it!" "We should go through the Gap of Rohan." "NO! We're going around Caradhras!" "My sword has good balance." "NO! Mine is better, and it was Elendil's, so thbbbpt!"

Funny, there's sort of strange rumbling noise coming from above; I wonder if-

I apologize for the smudging, as we just had twenty-five tons of rock and snow dumped on our heads. Saruman's work, says Mithrandir. Amazing, really, that none of us were hurt. Mithrandir's hat didn't even fall off.

Now I suppose we'll have to go through the Gap of Rohan. This is madness!

Boromir

__

Dear Boromir,

It sounds like you're having a wonderful time.

Faramir

__ 

Dear Faramir,

I hate the way I write a five-page letter and you can only spare me a sentence. I thought you were supposed to be the literary-oriented one.

Boromir

__

Dear Boromir,

Sorry about that; I was injured in a skirmish with Haradrim and was unable to write, so I dictated a rather lengthy letter to Mablung. He didn't seem to be writing much, and claimed that he had "paraphrased." Remind me never to dictate to him again.

What I had intended to say was: Boromir, you idiot. You are obviously making no effort whatsoever in your relations with Aragorn. You are going to be his Steward. Politics is almost entirely comprised of learning to interact with people you'd rather see strung up and hurled off the Seventh Level of Minas Tirith. Some wonderful arts called tact and diplomacy, as well as the occasional fabrication, are involved in this process. Honestly, Boromir, if you'd spent any time listening to Tutor instead fidgeting and staring out the window, you might know some of this, too. You can't treat politics like it's some battle you're out to win; it's a delicate balance between double-crossing and compromise.

And don't touch the Ring again, if you can help it. Isildur's Bane has corrupted men as strong-willed as yourself... including Isildur, come to think of it. In addition, you'll have the wrath of this Sam to contend with, which sounds like a formidable force indeed.

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

There's nothing like, after a long day's worth of travel, receiving a letter from your beloved baby brother—in which he quite pragmatically informs one of one's idiocy. Thank you, Fari, for your support. And I hope that you're feeling better.

We're now sitting in front of—no, you guess. The Gap of Rohan? No, of course not. It takes us too close to Isengard. No-o-o, we're in front of... Moria. Yes, you heard that right. Moria. The Dwarrowdelf. Khazad-dûm. Durin's Halls. The Mines of Moria.

Isn't that just spectacular?

Not that we're anticipating any possibility of entering the Mines anytime soon. We arrived just in time for the light of the full moon to bathe the doors in silver light, revealing ancient spidery runes shining therein, whereupon Mithrandir placed his staff against the rock face, uttered some words in a foreign tongue... and realized that he didn't know the password. I've seen a great many things on this ill-fated venture, but this takes the cake. Mithrandir has spent the past three hours muttering in Elvish and Dwarvish and Manwë knows what else, and still the doors remain immovable. And there are wolves howling.

So we sit by the lake... and wait...

While Aragorn smokes his pipe...

...and Legolas strums his bow...

... and Gimli polishes his axe...

... and Sam weeps for the loss of Bill, our pony...

... and Pippin throws rocks into the lake...

... and... wait a minute, did that water just move—

Again, sorry for the smudging. We just got attacked by a bloodthirsty water creature.

And now we're trapped in Moria. Great.

Boromir


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this. Parody.

Dear Boromir,

You. Went. Into. Moria.

You went into Moria.

You went into Moria?

Eru, please make this one of your more inane practical jokes. If this is the case... Boromir, I will murder you, personally, implicitly, deliberately, for all the anguish you have caused me. If not... well, you may meet a premature death, even without my help. Oh Valar, this is horrible.

Mithrandir led you into Moria? Of all places... I pored my books of lore long and often when I had the leisure (and before Father set fire to my library—I am beginning to see a trend in this), and what the Dwarves awakened there could doubtless destroy even a Wizard. Mithrandir must know this—yet he led you there. He is a fool, or perhaps suicidal. Boromir, if you see anything made out of shadow and flame and carrying anything remotely resembling a whip, you are to run as fast as possible in the other direction. Don't try to be heroic—this is beyond your measure.

Oh, gods... be careful. If something were to happen to you, what would Father do? What would Gondor do? What would I do? This is madness... you, and our King, and the one person on whose survival depends the very survival of Middle-Earth have breached the most perilous location in all Arda, barring Barad-Dûr... and perhaps not even that.

Curse Mithrandir!

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

Why, brother, that is easily the most agitated letter I have ever received, and that includes the one you wrote me after Tinúviel's demise! So far, we have come across only several hundreds of Dwarf corpses and evidence of Goblins... no wrathful spirits of flame as of yet. Though, should we encounter one, I may tempted to bring it back to Gondor and set in on Father... though he may enjoy the experience, due to his curious affinity with fire.

I did, however, hear a strange scrabbling noise down in the chasm, and after carefully tracking it to its source, ran back to Aragorn, who was polishing his spectacular ancestral sword (again). "We're being followed!" I hissed at him. "Something, down there in the gorge..."

He spared me half a glance and a supercilious smirk. "Oh, that's Gollum. Yes, he's been following us for days. Are you really the only one who hasn't noticed?"

I declare, Faramir, that our King is looking forward to a premature assassination.

Oh, fine, so he didn't say it exactly like that. But I could tell he meant it.

At any rate, we are now facing the prospect of starving to death in this God-forsaken mine, because we are lost. Yes, we are lost.

Mithrandir claims that he has traveled through Moria before, and has been leading us quite confidently... that is, until five minutes ago. It reminded me of that one time, when we decided to take a vacation in Dol Amroth. You must remember how, on that particular trip, we came to a fork in the road, and Father halted his horse, drew in the reins, looked up, sniffed deeply, and said, in a slightly congested voice, "I have no memory of this place."

Well, that is exactly what happened here. Except this time there will be no picnics and games of hide-and-seek while Father rereads the road map and argues with Mother about which exit we should have taken. All that can be done is to wait (again) while Mithrandir thinks and lectures Frodo on morality, and pray that no goblins, creatures of flame, or skulking gangrel creatures come to challenge us.

Boromir

__

Dear Boromir,

I am glad to see that you are still alive, but horrified to discover that you are still in Moria and, not only that, lost!

What on earth does Mithrandir think he will accomplish by this? Not only does he lead you into Moria, but he doesn't know how to get back out! I mean, Father got us lost on the way to Dol Amroth, but he at least knew the way back to Gondor!

Well, actually, if I recall correctly, I was the one who knew the way back to Gondor... but that's not the point! The point is that someone knew the way back. I still cannot believe that you went through Moria to avoid Isengard. Do the gears and cogs in Mithrandir's brain operate differently than in mine? Or is it improper to think it odd that one might go through a goblin-and-Balrog infested mine to avoid some wizard's tower?

And who is Gollum?

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

You still sound hysterical. That being said, take some deep breaths before you read any more.

Mithrandir, having officially decided that he had absolutely no premonition as to our whereabouts, arbitrarily picked a passage, which we followed. We came upon some Dwarf's tomb, and then Pippin (yes, this is the same Pippin who aroused the overly aggressive nautical being back at the entrance) chucked a stone down a well, alerting an entire army of Goblins to our presence.

That was about the point when we realized that we had made a severe strategical error, and were now trapped inside the cave. Aragorn and I barred the door (I was nearly impaled by three arrows in the process, which strikes me as somewhat... ominous?), but, predictably, our defenses were shattered by a rather large cave troll. This was about the point when I was thrown against the wall, and when I came to, I saw that Frodo was dead.

At least, he was supposed to be dead, judging by the spear protruding from his chest, but then he showed off his silver long-johns and stood back up, so I guess that it was some kind of bluff.

We made for the bridge, where we nearly lost Aragorn and Frodo (it wasn't until we'd all leapt clear of the crumbling structure when we realized that we'd left our two most important members behind). It was about when we crossed the second bridge that the Wrathful Spirit of Flame made its appearance. It was, however, on the other side of the gorge, and, seeing that the bridge was far too narrow for it to cross, I assumed that we were safe. However, Mithrandir decided that he needed to stage a grand confrontation. He placed himself at the middle of the bridge, and began waving around his staff and sword, calling it "spawn of Udun" and telling it to "go back to the Shadow." This understandably pissed the creature off, and it charged Mithrandir, but the bridge, as previously stated, was too narrow, and buckled beneath it. As it tumbled to an apparent doom, Mithrandir struck a heroic pose, as if it had been he who had made the bridge collapse; but, as he finally turned to go, the spirit's whip flew up and coiled around his ankle, pulling him down into the abyss.

After that, things felt strangely like... slow motion? Frodo screamed and made a futile dash toward the bridge, but I caught him as he passed, whereupon he had a horrendous temper tantrum and I was obliged to carry him, kicking and screaming, out of the Mines (I guess my extremely witty comment of "Is it time for s o m e b o d y's nappy?" should have gone unsaid, but at fifty, he should be more restrained than that). Aragorn stood for a full minute, staring dumbly at the bridge, and it wasn't until I had shouted at him for a while that he finally started moving again. I think I may be the only one with sense on this Quest.

Of course, once we emerged, the whole Fellowship we obliged to sit down and have a good cry, myself excepted. I found it oddly difficult to feel great remorse over someone who had almost led us to our doom numerous times, but! I decided to be sensitive. I comforted the Halflings. When Aragorn wanted to be on the move again, I decided to be sensitive again and told him to "give them a moment." He, of course, made some crass comment about being ambushed by Orcs and spurred us on to run again.

I am never going to try being sensitive again, especially not when there's some King there to make me feel like a bloody idiot.

Boromir


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this. Parody.

Dear Boromir,

… Excuse me a moment, while I take deep, calming breaths.

There, that's better.

What do you mean, you got attacked by a Balrog?

Okay, that's not calm enough… inhale… exhale… good.

What do you mean, you got attacked by a Balrog?

That will certainly be something to tell your posterity someday. You saw the legendary Flame of Udun… and lived! And lived. I'm more relieved than I can say. Nonetheless, I pity poor Mithrandir, though I begin to suspect he may have known his fate before he entered that accursed Mine. Not that it excuses him, mind you… however, it is cruel to rail against the dead. Let us talk of other things.

I have followed your journey closely on my maps, ever since you encountered the Misty Mountains—farther north of that we have few records, as you well know. I do not know how exactly I have hit upon your location, but if I am correct in my assumptions, then you are headed directly for the Golden Wood, Lothlórien. Boromir, I would advise you to avoid this place, if you can…there is a power there from which Men can avail naught. Few may leave that place unchanged, and I would prefer you to remain exactly as you are, shocking though that sentiment may be. Though it would be nice if you snored a bit less.

I take it that Aragorn is now the leader of your party; the need for deference is now even greater. Your (rather pathetic) attempts at being "sensitive" back at the caves will may have sent out the (perhaps) mistaken impression that you were trying to make him look like the "bad guy" in the eyes of the rest of the Fellowship; this may have engendered feelings of resentment or vulnerability on his part, so you'll need to be extra-sensitive to that. On second thought—forget the sensitive part, you'll botch it; just stick with being deferential.

Do you suppose that the Gondor Weekly would be interested in hiring an anonymous advice columnist?

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

Your advice always, always, always comes too late, Faramir. One of us must be cursed.

We have sought sanctuary in the realm of Lórien, and it has been most trying.

We stumbled upon the Forest sort-of-but-not-quite on accident, only to be accosted by a band of Elves with even more hair than Legolas. They welcomed him warmly, he being one of their own kind, and made such statements to Aragorn as to confirm that he had their Lady's favor. The Halfings were much wondered over, and abuse was hurled at Gimli. I was pointedly ignored.

We were then led blindfolded to Caras Galadhon, their tree-city, where the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel welcomed each of us by name—myself excepted. I was pointedly ignored.

Tell me, are all Elves discourteous, or only those that I have met?

Celeborn began to speak in a staccato monotone (you do not believe there is any such thing as a staccato monotone, Faramir? You have obviously never heard Lord Celeborn speak). "Eightthereareyetninethereweresetout from Riven Dell. TellmewhereisGandalftheGreyforImuchdesireto speak with him."

And yes, he said it in exactly that fashion, with a slightly glazed expression to go along with it. I sniggered a little; I couldn't help it. Aragorn stamped on my foot. Hard. I though it might have been disconnected altogether, so hard was that stomp. My eyes smarted.

By now, Galadriel was speaking. "The Quest walks on the edge of a knife; stray but a little, and it will fail. Yet hope remains while the Company is true." And then she glared very pointedly at me.

I felt like an utter fool, still snickering a bit even as I blinked back tears from the unwarranted assault on my foot, while the witch-queen made insinuations about me—in public! It was not to be borne.

But then I felt it. Lothlórien has a strange air to it, a kind of presence, subtle yet ever at hand—but now there was someone, quite deliberately, probing my mind. I could sense it feeling out my weaknesses, uncovering my failings, and then there was a voice in my head, and it belonged to Galadriel.

"Boromir, Son of Gondor—your father is a chemically imbalanced loony who beats your brother, eats tomatoes like a three-year-old, and has a wide variety of compulsory disorders related to misusing magical glass spheres and incinerating random objects. There's some hope for your kind, but not much."

Silence. A confused silence, but silence nonetheless.

Then—"Have you no comment to this assessment?"

"My Lady, it's nothing that the whole of the Gondor doesn't know already."

A second silence, miffed this time. "Bloody Húrins," said the Lady presently, and withdrew from my mind huffily.

We have now been given leave to retire, but any chance of repose is slim—quite apart from the fact that one feels that one's mind will be mugged if one lets one's guard down for half a moment, some strange, ethereal, and altogether deafening singing has been wafting down from the upper boughs of the trees for several hours. "It is a lament for Gandalf," explains Legolas. "What do they say about him?" asks Merry. "I will not tell—my own grief is too near!" he cries touchily, and storms off. Alas, Fari, I shall never understand Elves.

Have removed boots. My foot is heavily bruised. Damn Aragorn.

Boromir

P.S. Advice columnist? A post you would no doubt relish—but tell me, Faramir, if the Steward of Gondor were to write in for counsel about his intolerable younger son, how would you reply?

__

Dear Boromir,

Ah, brother, I feel for your poor molested toes. Perhaps you might call on Aragorn for medicinal aid—as they say, "the hands of a King are the hands of a healer." Though, judging by your current standings, he may attempt an unnecessary amputation. So much for being deferential, Bori; derisively giggling at some of his Personal Friends within earshot was an astute move indeed.

I feel that I may have to destroy all of your letters once Aragorn has returned to the White City, lest I be tempted to present them as evidence when he has you tried for High Treason.

Your account of the Golden Wood and the Lady Galadriel interests me greatly. I fear little now for its effects on you—I have reflected that you are indeed too stubborn to be changed—but I would have liked to meet this Elf myself. I am prone to the same peculiar mental faculties as our dear father, and I am curious as to what we would have made of each other. How easily would she have broken my mind, and would I have been able to do the same to hers?

Where shall you go when you depart from Lórien? Shall you go on to Mordor, or will you return to Minas Tirith in lieu of that journey? Will the King accompany you? I know that you must attend to whatever duties you have undertaken in this venture, but, myself, I wish you would come home as soon as can be. For if Father is still in the same (or a worsened) state as when you left, then I may look for something by the way of an assassination attempt when I next visit Minas Tirith.

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

We have at last taken our leave of Lórien; or, rather, we took our leave of Lórien this morning, and Galadriel overtook us in her Swan-boat and demanded that we take luncheon with her. The whole affair was rather tedious. As we departed, she gave us all gifts—Aragorn, a scabbard and an Elfstone, Legolas, a bow, Sam, a gardening kit (how useful), Merry and Pippin, daggers, Gimli, three of her hairs (Eru, but that Dwarf is an odd one), Frodo, the Light of Eärendil, and me—a belt.

I felt loved, truly I did, Faramir.

Now we make our way by boat down to Anduin, to Parth Galen, where we will finally decide our course. Peace, brother—I am coming back to Minas Tirith posthaste, and Aragorn is to accompany me (oh, but I am looking forward to that journey). As to the others, it will be their decision whether to accompany us—and wherever Frodo chooses, Isildur's Bane shall come also. I hope that he opts to join us in Gondor, for I do not fancy a Halfling's chances in Mordor, and at the White City we may better plan our journey to Mount Doom, if that still be the will of the Company.

Ah, but my foot still hurts like murder. I should see if I can pop a hole in Aragorn's boat.

For the sake of clarification, should this ever be presented as evidence at any trials of mine for High Treason—that last statement was purely for comical purposes.

Boromir


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this. Parody.

Dear Boromir,

Boromir, please listen to me for once, would you? The Ring must not come to Minas Tirith. No, I have not gone over to the side of the Elves, who to all appearances consider us an inferior breed—an inequitable judgment, for anyone who is at all acquainted with Elf-lore knows that they have been guilty of the same temptations and betrayals of our kind. I believe strongly in the valor of Gondor; yes, there is weakness, yes, there is frailty, but there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men.

However, when I say "Men" I am making Father an exception. He is mad, Boromir, stark, raving mad. You know this, I know this, Gondor knows this. How did the Lady Galadriel put it? "Your father is a chemically imbalanced loony." Can you imagine what could be wrought if the Ring were to fall into his hands?

Think, Boromir, of the forest fires. Ithilien. Fangorn. Mirkwood. Up in a blaze. Pyromaniacs and omnipotence do not mix well. Father is drunk on the power he feels when he sees visions in a glass-spun ball—can you imagine the kind of power that the Ring would exercise over him? Brush fires in Rohan. Edoras aflame.

No, Boromir, the Ring must not come anywhere near Minas Tirith. And yet… how do they mean to enter Mordor? How can they hope to pass undetected? It is a pity that there is no manner of approaching the Black Lands from above… but that is merely conjectural folly. Until the day that Men grow wings, we must fight our wars on land rather than air.

Please, Boromir, heed what I say. Come back to Minas Tirith, but do not come with Isildur's Bane.

Besides, was that not the reason you were sent to Imladris? To bring back the Ring for Father? And who would want give Father that kind of satisfaction? I can already imagine the "I-told-you-so" expression on his face as he receives his prize, and then reduces the nearest object into a pile of ashes.

And, knowing my general standing in Father's pecking order, the nearest object would probably be me.

Faramir

__

Dear Faramir,

You forget the influence that I hold over our Father, as his heir and—though I would not have it so—favorite son. I would see that the Ring never found its way into his possession, for my aim in bringing it to the White City would not be to surrender it to him, but to regroup, to replan, to strike out from a strong place. But it matters little—our speculation is all for naught. Aragorn will not see the Ring brought to Gondor, and Frodo would never go against his counsel.

I tried to reason with our would-be King, telling him what I have told you. I even threw in your little bit of eloquence about the courage and honor of Men. He answered coldly that there was no strength in Gondor, and that he would not see the Ring taken within a hundred leagues of my—my, not our—City.

That stung. I socked him in the eye.

Oh, fine, so I didn't. But I wanted to. Very, very badly. Have me tried for treason if you will, Faramir. He ought to have been born a bloody Elf; only the eartips are wanting. And the hygiene bit.

We are setting out again… I shall postmark this later.

__

Have been throwing Aragorn nasty glares from my boat. I don't think he's noticed. Damn him. Maybe I should try a friendly hand gesture… ah, but there are the Argonath, and it would be shockingly irreverent to do that in their presence…

__

We have at last reached Parth Galen, and stopped for a brief respite while the members of the Company choose their course. Aragorn and I are still due to journey to my city, and though he would not have the Ring come to Minas Tirith, it is down to the Ringbearer to decide for himself. He appears distraught, and has declared that he must go off alone to ponder his choice. This is madness—we should not linger here, not with Orcs on the opposite bank…

I think that I will go collect firewood. Who's to say we might not need to build a cooking fire in the middle of the day just because we're on a mission of extreme stealth and speed is of the essence and Orcs hell-bent on killing us are on the other side of the River?

__

I have done a very stupid thing, Faramir.

Very, very stupid.

I tried to… oh Eru's blood, are those Uruks?

__

Bloody hell.

Faramir, you would not believe what justaaaargh…

________

Faramir stared at the letter, hands trembling.

"Damrod?" he called across the cavern. "Damrod, will you come here a moment?"

The Ranger plodded over to the wooden trestle table, littered with papers and stubs of candles, where Faramir sat, brooding. "Yes, Captain?"

Faramir gestured at the parchment before him. "What do you make of that?"

Damrod read. "'Faramir, you would not believe what justaaargh'?"

"Yes, that. What do you suppose it means?"

Damrod shrugged. "Maybe he died while writing it?"

Faramir's face turned the color of sour milk. For a moment, his countenance was contorted in a paroxysm of terror; then, a frown formed between his eyes, and confusion replaced it.

"Yes, but why would he bother to write 'aaaargh'? He'd just say it!" He blinked, and his expression cleared. In another instant, it was troubled once more. "Well, this is Boromir we're talking about…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there had been any conceivable way for Boromir and Faramir to correspond during the Quest, it might have sounded something like this. Parody.

Faramir had, to put it in simple terms, a very unsettling day.

It began with a bevy of Haradrim.

It always began with a bevy of Haradrim.

Faramir had long noted that mortal combat had a habit of throwing his entire day askew. Not that he didn't appreciate his morning jolt just as much as the next Gondorian, but hazardous life-or-death scuffles were, in his opinion, somewhat disproportionate. A decent espresso would have been enough. More than enough.

After the skirmish, which was somewhat short-lived, because his Rangers were damn good at what they did, he returned to Henneth Annûn—or "Hidey-Hole Henneth", as Boromir had so wittily termed it—where he spent several hours consulting tattered yellowed maps and devising military strategies. Or rather, pretending to consult maps and devise strategies while he quietly composed extensive mental lists of the many places he'd rather be and things he'd rather be doing.

Some people said that Faramir wasn't cut out to be a warrior. Well, he'd like to see them on the receiving end of one of his arrows. Bastards.

Faramir was feeling a little bitter that day. He'd had another letter from the Steward, who was of the opinion that the Rangers ought to be using signal flares instead of birdcalls for their martial operations. Faramir was naturally diplomatic, but there were times when there really wasn't anything one could say.

If Faramir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, thought that his day had been unsettling so far, then he really had no idea what was coming next.

Because there really are very few things more unsettling than finding one's older brother dead in a boat. Except maybe being burnt alive by one's own father.

______

It's funny how a moment can change everything. When the craft from Lothlórien glided softly toward Faramir, barely a hair's breadth from his outstretched hand, he inclined his head, slightly, to see what was inside, and one of those moments rose up and slapped him in the face.

Nothing, in thirty-five years of experience, had ever told him what to do after a moment like that has arisen and slapped one in the face.

Several four-letter words came to mind. He said one of them. "What?"

Then, the three-letter word. "Why?"

The two letter word. "No…"

The forty-four letter, ten-word sequence. "Boromir! Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!"

He gazed down at the still form again, vision a bit dimmer than usual, and couldn't think of anything else to say.

Then, he noticed that there was a piece of paper clutched in Boromir's left hand.

Faramir reached out and, taking care not to disturb the boat, plucked the parchment free. It slid from his brother's cold grasp with surprising ease. The boat lingered a moment more, and then it was gone, pulled along relentlessly by the inexorable current.

Faramir unfolded the paper.

Dear Faramir,

Take a deep breath.

Boromir

And then something collided with Faramir from behind with immense force, knocking him head-first into the Anduin. He floundered a moment in the murky water, his dark Ranger's cloak billowing around him, but no inexperienced swimmer was he, especially given the depth of the water. In a moment, he was on his feet again, soggy and seething, ready to launch himself at whoever had dunked him.

Only there was no one there.

But there was the faintest hint of a snigger on the breeze…

Faramir felt oddly as if he was not alone.

THE END


End file.
